Dreamland Lake (9 page)

If it’d been left up to me, all I’d have done was just go up to Elvan and say, hey, we might as well be friends. To start the ball rolling, what could be easier? He’d have jumped at it. Of course if it
had
been left up to me, I’d never have gone near him. But since it was Flip who was managing things—as usual—it had to be elaborate. And, as Miss Klimer would say, “preoccupied with the grotesque.”

He was still carrying around
A Centennial History of the City of Dunthorpe, Black Hawk County, and
Environs.
He kept renewing it at the library, even though we didn’t have much time to continue on our local history kick. The librarian must have been overjoyed to have old Estella Winkler Bates off her shelves all spring.

So one day, while we were making the deliveries, he started carrying on about the Municipal Art Museum—not one of our regular hangouts. He must have been reading up on it in study hall. “Built as a palatial residence by Marius Benderman, drainpipe and ceramic tile tycoon, in 1878,” he quoted, more or less from memory.

“No kidding,” I said.

“An eclectic structure, basically Italianate, with the popular Gothic embellishments of the period. Wagonloads of tourists came to watch the construction which took three and a half years.”

“Do tell,” I said.

“The central staircase—entirely black walnut—was handcarved by Bavarians and rises from the reception hall, connecting with a conventional box staircase to the central tower.”

“Think of that,” I said.

“There’s a statue of Diana Undraped—Goddess of the Hunt—in imported marble in a niche in the sitting room.”

“Diana Undraped—right here in Dunthorpe,” I said.

“Built as a country villa, it now stands near the middle of the city on eight landscaped acres, only a fraction of its original grounds. Dedicated to the people as an art museum in 1914 by the Benderman family.”

“A pleasant parkland,” I said, “where once gracious
living of a bygone day still hangs around. Thank you, Estella.”

“Oh, shut up,” Flip said.

So after we got the papers out, we walked over to the art museum, which is in a neighborhood that’s known better days. Basically Italian with Gothic doodads it may be, but it looks like the chamber of horrors today. Old Marius built big, but it lacks the homey touch. The only thing that kept it from coming off like a Halloween card was that, now that it’s an art museum, they have fluorescent lights hanging down from all the ceilings. This doesn’t add to the charm, but it does give it a modern, everyday glow. We went in.

“Herringbone parquet,” Flip said, pointing to the floor of the entrance hall. It was put together with little pieces of polished wood in a zigzag pattern.

Just to keep up, I pointed out the staircase and said, “Handcarved black walnut.”

The art exhibit was of local talent. And since there isn’t much, nobody was looking around, and most of the walls were bare. “Let’s find Diana Undraped,” I said, but Flip was heading for the handcarved staircase.

“I wonder where the curator is,” Flip whispered.

“Beats me,” I said. “In fact, I don’t know what one is.”

“That’s the person in charge,” he said, “like the caretaker. And from now on, keep quiet.”

So I could see we were up to something even before Flip started creeping up the stairs, which were carpeted, luckily. The only art on the second floor landing was an oil painting of Marius Benderman with a beard down to his belt. The staircase went on
up, but there was this little velvet rope across it with a sign:
PUBLIC NOT ADMITTED BEYOND THIS POINT
. Flip went under it. I went over it.

The third floor landing was smaller, with five closed doors. Dark too. Flip looked at each one of them and, finally, pointed to the only one that had a little step under it. He tried it, and it opened.

“Conventional box staircase leading to central tower,” I quoted to him.

“I said be quiet,” Flip whispered back. He hustled up into the complete darkness. The steps were uncarpeted and steep. We were both going up on hands and knees. I thought I better pull the door shut behind us, just in case. So it was like the middle of a moonless night. The staircase made several turns, but, finally, we came out in a little room. Dusty as hell, with cobwebs. We were standing in the top of the tower right over the front entrance of the museum. There were narrow, round-topped windows on three sides. You could see all over town. We were up, maybe, five floors, and you could look over the trees downtown to the Merchants’ and Farmers’ Bank Building, which is the local skyscraper.

“Great view,” Flip said.

“We’re trespassing,” I said.

“This’ll do just fine,” Flip said, and started off back down the stairs. We got all the way back to the second floor before we heard voices. A bunch of women were just coming in the front door. So we whirled around and contemplated the painting of Marius Benderman. Then we strolled back down the stairs like a couple of well-known art lovers. And out the front door.

I didn’t bother to ask Flip why we’d done it—or why it would “do just fine.” I was always supposed
to be able to figure out ahead of time what we were planning. And I wasn’t about to ask.

The next day at school we were about the last ones through the cafeteria line. Flip had told me to wait for him, and he arranged to be late. So the only table left was the one at the back. It was sort of Reject’s Row, if you know what I mean. Elvan was there.

Flip made a line straight for it. When Elvan saw us flop down within easy reach, he looked up from his mountain of lunch, and his face really lit up. But right away, Flip started talking to me in an extra loud voice. Like we were in a play or something. But also like we were completely alone at the table.

“Well, Bry, tonight’s the night. Yessir, this is the night we’ve been waiting for. Going to go down to the art museum just as quick as we get the papers out. I hear you can climb right up into the tower if you go up the main staircase without getting caught. Then you go through this door and up some more stairs, and there you are. Supposed to be the best view in town, they tell me. ’Course, it’s strictly off-limits. I don’t know if we better risk it. Still, it’s worth a try. Never been up in that tower, have you?”

“Sure,” I said, And Flip gave me this look like I’d gone berserk and betrayed him. He started kicking away at me under the table. “I was up there two, maybe three, years ago,” I said, very cool. “Great view. Wouldn’t mind having a look at it again.” At least, this stopped the kicking. I wasn’t about to give Flip complete control over the conversation—once I figured out what we were up to.

“Yeah, well, we ought to be up there by about five o’clock, wouldn’t you say?” While he said this, he kept an eye on me.

“I’d say so.” Then we started talking about something
else, I forget what. Elvan could hardly eat for straining his ears.

We were a little ahead of schedule arriving at the art museum. It was just four-thirty. And there were some bona fide art lovers wandering around the first floor. So we made a quick run through the rooms legally open to the public. It must have been a great old place in its day. As big as Mrs. Garrison’s house. Without all her furniture, and lampshades, and things, it looked even bigger.

The exhibit of local talent was mostly wishy-washy watercolors—a lot of pink barns, and tree limbs, and like that. Except for them, it was an interesting place. Diana Undraped was standing up on her toes, naked as a skinny-dipper and snowy white. Somebody had painted the little alcove behind her like a blue sky with big, white, puffy clouds that were beginning to flake. And you could see where they’d had gaslight fixtures coming out of the walls in the old days. It was a nice piece of local history, and you could tell that the old ladies going around on canes and looking at the watercolor barns were glad to see young fellows taking an interest in art.

But Flip was working our way back to the entrance hall. We stood around in there on the herringbone parquet till nobody was around. Then he was up the stairs—two at a time—around the landing, and under the velvet rope. One minute, we were there; the next minute, we’d vanished. Like a couple of bats heading for the belfry.

Up in the tower room, it was still afternoon. The sun was streaming in at a low angle. All the west windows in town were bright orange. “Keep an eye on the front gate,” Flip said, “but don’t let yourself
be seen.” We stood up there maybe twenty minutes.

Then, way down in the distance, we saw Elvan Helligrew coming through the big wrought-iron gates out by the street. He was looking first one way and then the other, like we might be hiding behind the trees in the yard. But he came lumbering on up to the house and disappeared right under our feet onto the front porch.

“Behind the door,” Flip muttered. The tower room wasn’t any bigger than a freight elevator, but the door to it was extra wide. We pushed it back and fitted in behind it with space to spare. And it seemed like we were back there another twenty minutes. “That idiot probably got lost,” I finally whispered.

But right then, we heard a sound at the bottom of the box staircase. This time, Elvan did sound more like a rhinoceros. I think he tripped and fell up the steps once, from the sound of it. But then, he began creeping on up. And the higher he got, the quieter he was. He must have stopped when his head was level with the floor, trying to see if we were up there. But then, he brushed right past the crack in the open door without seeing us. He must have pretty well filled up the doorway. Then it sounded like he walked over to look out the window. Maybe he thought he was early or maybe on a wild-goose chase.

Flip began pushing the door to, very slowly. It didn’t squeak, which would have been a nice, eerie touch. It just began to swing shut. And it closed before Elvan whirled around and saw us standing there.

“If it isn’t Elvan,” I said.

“If it isn’t Elvan, what is it?” Flip said.

“Gosh, old buddies,” Elvan gasped.

That was the great beginning of our temporary friendship with Elvan Helligrew. I wish it had stopped then too. I wish that more than anything.

Flip scared Elvan halfway out of his skull that afternoon in the tower. I forget the exact words, but there were plenty of them. He didn’t bring up the woods, but he told Elvan he was sick and tired of him tailing us night and day, and how we couldn’t do any exploring
ANYWHERE
without Elvan butting in, and it was going to stop and stop beginning now. Maybe
he threatened to chuck Elvan out of the tower window just to insure our future privacy. I forget. But it was like that.

Elvan ate it up to the last crumb, nodding to Flip to keep him going until I wanted to puke. Seemed like it went on into the night, and the end of it was, okay, if we can’t get rid of you, we might as well make up our minds to put up with you, but watch yourself and don’t take anything for granted. And maybe we’d drop over at your place one of these days if we got invited, but don’t keep dropping into our lives unless asked.

It had an overwhelming, double-barreled effect on Elvan—he enjoyed every bit of it. The humiliation, he expected. But the half-assed promise of buddyhood had him about dancing around with joy. Enough to shake the tower loose from the rest of the building.

All this led us, after a very few days, to Elvan’s house. You know how there are some people whose houses you can’t imagine? I mean if they have a home life, you can’t picture it? That’s the way it was with Elvan in my mind.

The Helligrews live in a section of town called Beechurst Heights, which is in our end of Dunthorpe, only farther out—almost in open country. It’s the newest section—small-scale suburbia. One of those instant-class developments where they give each house model a special name. Like
AUTHENTIC EARLY CALIFORNIA SPANISH EL RANCHO
and
STRATFORD-ON-AVON AUTHENTIC OLDE ENGLISH TUDOR
. According to Elvan, his house was
AUTHENTIC EARLY COLONIAL CAPE COD SALT-BOX
.

Now that we were all three buddies, he invited us over one Saturday afternoon. Frankly, I could have
passed up the invitation with pleasure. We were leading him on, and, maybe, he knew it and didn’t even mind. I mean it’s either friendship, or it’s nothing.

Anyway, the minute we walked in the door, I knew it was going to turn out to be a bad scene. There was Elvan, slicked up like we were company. And his mother hovering around in the near background.

I guess I expected her to be another mountain of flesh. But she wasn’t. She was kind of a nice-looking woman—regular size, and she’s so glad to see us you could bust out crying. How nice to meet Elvan’s friends, and she was preparing some very tasty snacks for us, and their home was our home. It was pretty hard to take. And it had an effect on Flip too. He was extra polite to her. After all, there wasn’t any getting out of it at that point. When adults get into the act, you tend to lose what control you have.

But Elvan wanted us to himself and took us up to see his room. Which was like a picture of what a boy’s room is supposed to look like. Plaid curtains on the windows and the same plaid stuff on the bed. And a nice cork-tile bulletin board—pretty empty. All very neat except for candy wrappers on the floor around the bed. Apart from them, there wasn’t much evidence of Elvan in the room. “This isn’t my real place,” he said. “I have another place which is really my real place. I’ll show that to you after awhile.”